The Noble Scars, page 1
Praise for The Noble Scars
“James T. Sterling has written a vivid, action packed novel that reveals a lively imagination and a sophisticated conception of good and evil. There are no pauses, silences or ambiguities here. Steeds snort and sweat with effort-traitors, fools and thieves lose their heads with ferocious dispatch.”
- Don Wall
The Noble Scars
Copyright 2022 by James T. Sterling
All rights reserved.
Published by Sterling Editions
First Edition
No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For more information about the author, we invite you to visit www.jameststerling.com
ISBN 978-0-9937156-2-4
Acknowledgements
To aptly express my gratitude toward my late wife Shelley would require an entirely new book.
Without her undying praise of every god-awful draft that I wrote, this story would have never come to fruition.
~
Many of man’s undertakings begin with the simple objective of trying to impress a girl, and this book was no different. At the time I started to write, she was a young reader with a voracious appetite for fantasy, devouring volumes within a single sitting. Little did I know that this girl would become the first person I would seek for an expert edit of this story.
My daughter Hollie has easily become my greatest source for advice, regardless of the subject. I’m wholeheartedly convinced that she was brought into this world to be here for me, just as much as I am here for her.
~
The dream of every man who has a son is that the boy becomes a better man than he is. My son Tom accomplished that on the day he was born. Graced with inherent kindness and inner wisdom, he is the greatest man-giant I have ever known.
~
One of the greatest stories I have ever been a part of is the one of Joanne and I, my wife! Her guidance in every facet of my life has been spellbinding!
If this book captures a fraction of the energy and enthusiasm with which she lives every day, then it is destined for unfathomable greatness.
~
My book’s first exposure to the public came during a workshop run by Brian Henry. I would like to thank Brian for his professional guidance as well as all my classmates, whose enthusiasm and approval for my story helped propel me to the next level.
Prologue
Time was precious, and Ballor had none of it to waste. As he raced toward his stallion, he tilted the visor of his horn-rimmed helmet and stole a glance at the newborn in his arms. Its cheeks were hollow, and the whites of its eyes bulged like they were ready to fall out. It looked back at Ballor without a tear or a peep, even though coarse wool rubbed against its burnt skin.
He covered it back up, harnessed his dripping sword to his saddle, and mounted.
For hours, they beat down the main road on steel-shod hooves, spit and snot spewing from the beast’s face. Then Ballor yanked the reins, and they turned south onto an unworn path that was barely visible amid the overgrown foliage. Ballor ignored the overhanging trees that swatted his helmet as he begged more and more of the tiring steed. On they went, through the poorly traveled path and its myriad turns, until their destination loomed.
Buried deep in the woods, surrounded by a murky swamp, was a small castle bearing two towers: one with a peak and the other an observation turret. What brick was not covered in vines was black as night, as if it had been charred by fire.
There was a path that wound through a swamp and led to the castle; it was desolate and cast with dead weeds.
Ballor dismounted, removed his helmet, and placed it on the ground. He scanned the wall and the turrets above him as his heart pounded. He approached the front doors, a large two-piece metal gate that looked more like the entrance to a dungeon than a home. He banged on them until they opened inward, seemingly on their own. A stench of mold barged into his nostrils like an unwanted guest.
Ballor stood there for a moment, his hand retreating to the hilt of his sword. Then the darkness within broke as a figure with a small candle approached, then stopped a foot from the entrance and the dim sunlight that breached the doorway. Ballor could see nothing but the outline of a face. He spoke to break the unnerving silence.
“The Mage… I’ve come to see the Mage.”
But there was no response.
Ballor stepped a little closer and opened the bundle. The figure leaned forward to see the child, exposing his features in the candlelight. Air hissed unbidden from Ballor’s lips when he caught sight of the pale-skinned man, who seemed remarkably stout for a person of such severe age.
He said nothing as he turned, gesturing for Ballor to follow. Inside, the figure raised a hand to stop Ballor while he continued into the darkness. Ballor waited for what seemed an eternity until the candlelight reappeared down a distant hallway. Two sets of shuffling feet competed with the thud of Ballor’s heart. The figure with the candle drifted off to the side to leave Ballor face-to-face with the Mage. He was dressed in a black robe, tied with a black cord that draped his waist like a dead snake. His age was hard to guess. His wrinkles were profound, yet his hair was jet black, falling well past his ears. Candlelight flickered off his facial rings. He had two in each ear and one in his chin that dangled half a hand span below.
“Do I know you?” he asked in a voice as coarse as dry rope.
“My name is Ballor.”
“I have heard of this heathen,” the servant said to the Mage. “He has a reputation for perversion and savagery.”
Ballor smirked. “I’ve brought something I trust is of great value to you.” He opened the bundle.
“Of what purpose would an ugly child provide me?”
An unfamiliar tremble came to Ballor’s hands. “I recall fables from my youth, describing an unending search for a child who is unloved from the womb, discarded by his own kind. For such a child you would offer a reward. This child fulfills the conditions of your search.”
The Mage looked up and down at Ballor’s suit of armor. “Where did the blood come from?”
Ballor glanced down at his suit, not realizing it was more crimson than it’s intended ebony. “The Kriks put up a fight.”
“The Kriks? This child is a Krik?” the servant asked.
“Yes,” Ballor replied.
The servant turned to the Mage. “Savage imbeciles who propagate themselves through incest.”
“You have wasted your efforts, Ballor,” the Mage said. “The child is supposed to be unwanted from its own kind, not stolen.”
“But it was unwanted, I swear it.”
The Mage took a step closer, the lines in his forehead deepening as he sneered. “You have already spoken one lie, Ballor. Another falsehood will incur my wrath.”
“Look again,” Ballor said. “Look at the burn marks upon him. The Kriks tore him from his mother and damn near tossed him into the flames.”
The Mage’s eyes grew wider. “And his mother? What of his mother? Did she feed him? Did she touch him? Has he been contaminated by her suckle?”
“This child has known no love or touch of warmth from its mother, this I swear.”
“What brought you to the Krikton Hills?”
“I was passing through in attempts to save a day’s ride around the mountain, seeking a meal to tide me on my way.”
The Mage slowly turned toward his servant, exchanging a pleased look, before turning back to Ballor again. “You have done well, Ballor. I shall indeed keep this child and reward you.”
“Thank you, milord.”
“Follow me, and bring the child. Be careful not to touch it with your bare hands.”
Ballor followed the two of them through several dark corridors navigated by the dim light of the servant’s candle. Curtains were drawn on every window. Not a scrap of sunlight was permitted inside. They arrived at a stairwell leading downward, lit by a single torch. Ballor stopped as the other two descended. He looked back, wondering if he could find his way out if he needed to. A sense of dread washed over him.
He swallowed, took a deep breath, and stepped forward. The walls dripped with moisture; the air was pungent and thick with mold, making him gag. He had to turn his shoulders to fit through the narrow passage. At the bottom, he followed them into a room that had a door with bars on it. Two torches lit the room, one at each end.
“Place the child down,” the Mage ordered.
Ballor looked around the room but could not find a crib of any kind. Nor was there furniture or a carpet.
“On the floor.”
Ballor placed the child on the cold, hard stone. While getting up, he noticed a stand in the corner of the room. Its polished marble gleamed in the torchlight. Upon it sat a thick book, open to a middle page.
“Does that pique your interest, Ballor?” the Mage asked.
Ballor approached the book. He looked briefly at the Mage, as if to ask permission to lay his hands on it. It was heavy, made of pure brass, scripted with dark red ink. After touching it, he came to realize that it didn’t have any pages and was forged as a book only in appearance. It did not open or close. There was just enough light for him to see that the script was written the correct side up on the first page and upside down on the second.
Ballor raised his hands and stepped away, a look of dread upon his face as he turned to the Mage.
“Is this the…?”
“The Book of Being?” the Mage asked. “I’m delighted that you’re familiar with it.”
“Was this written by her?”
The Mage’s face lit up as he took a step toward Ballor. “You know of the Healer?”
“Through rumor and superstition. They built their cult from The Healer’s Script. Did she make this book?
“She did not! I did.” The Mage’s voice echoed from the walls. “My smith forged it out of pure brass, using the original scroll as a guide.
“I… I don’t understand. How did you get the original scroll?”
“From her.”
Ballor’s eyes widened. “You took it from her, Miriam the Healer? That’s not possible. Their religion is over two hundred years old. There’s no way you could have.”
Filled with dread, Ballor gazed into the eyes of the Mage. He made to leave, but they stood in his way.
“I had her on my rack,” the Mage boasted. “Miriam, who was known from coast-to-coast of the Great Sea of Jorjun as the first miraculous Healer, was on my rack!”
“And what did she tell you?” Ballor asked.
“She looked at me with absolute fearlessness and said, ‘The Grand Spirit is the collaborator of life, it lives in everything. It thrives off harmony, peace, and selflessness. The more we love and give of ourselves, the more we feel it.’”
“So, you believe in the Spirit?”
“When I was a child, my parents were killed, and I was sold into slavery. I was beaten, molested, and tortured. Somehow, this incredible experience brought forth the ability to avenge my captors in ways I do not yet understand. You see, both Miriam and I were spoken to from something beyond this world. It’s just… we didn’t speak to the same spirit!”
Ballor’s eyes widened. “Did… did you find out what she wrote on the other scrolls?”
“What other scrolls?”
A flash of regret washed over Ballor’s face. “Apparently, there are other scrolls.”
“How do you know this?”
Ballor licked his lips and swallowed. “Years ago, me and three other sell-swords were on the run. We came across one of their temples in the woods near Renthem.”
“The desecration of the Renthem temple? That was you?”
Ballor nodded. “We needed food and shelter… Those people were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“What did they tell you?”
“They told us that the only thing they had of value was their faith, which was based on the scripts that were written over two hundred years ago by the founder of their faith—Miriam the Healer.”
“And did you find them?”
“We put each one of them to the blade to obtain the location of these scripts… and not one of them gave in.”
The servant slowly approached Ballor. “You seem disturbed by these events.”
Ballor took a breath. “I had killed countless times before that day, and countless times since, but no day ever brought a sensation of remorse like that one.”
“Did they tell you anything?”
Ballor paused for a moment. “They told us that one of the scripts was taken from Miriam upon her death, and then they divulged a very strange story to us. They told us that it wasn’t Miriam who wrote the scrolls.”
“Then who in Belth was it?” the Mage yelled.
“They said it was… the Grand Spirit.”
“What?”
“It was Miriam’s hand that wrote the words, but it was the Spirit that spoke through her. Apparently, she entered a trance and spoke in tongues while writing the scrolls without memory of having done so. The handwriting didn’t even match Miriam’s.”
The Mage backed away, wide-eyed.
“Did Miriam confess anything while on your rack?” Ballor asked.
The Mage turned and stared at him, as if he was reluctant to answer. “Miriam confessed to me that she was only a healer because the Grand Spirit worked through her. She called the people of her faith touched by The White. I was angered by such bravado.” He clenched his fists. “I heated my blade until it was scouring hot. I could barely hold it through gloves and wrap, but when I raised it to Miriam’s eyes, I saw that she had expired, a death I have no explanation for.”
“If you have no regard for her then why keep one of her scrolls and honor it in brass?”
“Did you not read it?”
“I… I cannot read.”
The Mage glanced over at his servant, nodded, and went over to the book. He read from the text:
“By his own doing, shall man bring forth,
He, who is the unrighteous depiction of himself,
By accordance of the Grand Spirit, shall he ascend
From the disfavors of man to lead those who serve the self.”
Then the servant walked around the stand to read the second page that was written upside down.
“Unwavering, he stands in the breath of his own righteousness
Ready to vanquish that which counters him
He knows not the woes of defeat nor the binds of time
But only glory as The Usurper of Belth.”
“This… this can’t be true,” Ballor stammered. “These are fairy tales; there is no Grand Spirit and no evil Usurper who is foretold to enter our world and consume it. It can’t be true. What… what are you going to do with the child?”
“Ballor, it is time for your reward. Follow us.”
The servant and the Mage walked out of the cell. On his way out, Ballor turned to the child lying on the floor, wondering if he should kill it to save it from the life of horrors it would certainly endure, but he chose not to.
The three men walked up the stairs and through the darkened hallways until they reached the open doors of the castle.
“Ballor, what do you believe the reward to be?” the Mage asked.
“It is the gift of life extended, the chance to outlive my enemies and my enemies’ children.”
The Mage smiled. “Ballor, I would not insult you with such a paltry reward. For the service rendered, you deserve a prize that extends far beyond the reaches of this realm.”
Ballor’s eyes widened in anticipation.
“What I bestow upon you Ballor… is eternal afterlife! Actions such as these can only find reward in the Kingdom of Belth at the feet of the Usurper, whose presence you have helped to fulfill this day.”
Then it came to Ballor, the reason why no one had helped the Mage with his search all these years. Ballor quickly drew his sword and backed out of the castle entrance. The Mage followed him, smiling at the warrior’s efforts to defend himself.
“Your endeavors, Ballor, although self-serving, could one day be construed as heroic.”
“By whom?”
“By the child. I am sorry, Ballor, but if this child is to fulfill the role for which you saved him, then he cannot know the affable sentiment of a savior. Your intent was righteous, but to discharge it, you must die.”
Ballor watched the Mage raise his hand, gnarled fingers aimed at him. Ballor raised his blade to strike, but it fell from his grip. He staggered sideways before dropping to his knees. He opened his mouth for a scream that wouldn’t come. His hands wavered over his eyes and throat.
Then Ballor went still, his mouth lay open, and his hands fell at his side. The deep red blood that had gathered in his skull burst from his eyes, and he collapsed.
The Mage went back inside, returning to his servant.
“The child is near death. Get him some goat milk, treat his wounds, but be sure to wear gloves. This child will never know the warmth of our touch. He shall sleep in the solitude of the castle’s depths in the room next to the book. Its emanations will enrich him; he will need its strength for the path I propose.”
“Do you think this is the child?”
“I will treat him as such. He will learn the elements of dark magic, the merits of torture, and the means to prolong his life, as you and I have done. He will ignore the gods that other men choose to worship. He will join me in my search for the remaining scrolls of The Healer’s Script and our defiance toward the followers of the Grand Spirit. As an apostle of the Usurper, he will need to be powerful. The Grand Spirit will most undoubtedly produce a virtuous entity to oppose him.”
